Ghost
by roseflorintine
Summary: Numair Salmalin is a newspaper journalist, living in Italy for the next year. But something is not quite right in this house, which has quite the long history...
1. Chapter 1

Unnoticed, unheard, unfelt. That had been her life for the past years. Countless people had intruded upon her abode, and each one she sent away screaming. She was the mistress of this house, and even the very walls reported information to her. They just didn't seem to understand. She did not wish to be disturbed. She wished for peace and quiet. She wished to be left alone in her big house, which had been her birthplace and deathbed. She wished to be left in solitude, and reflect on her life, and how it had left her in a limbo of sorts, unable to go either way. But still they came, to call her house home, and to act as if they knew the slightest bit about it.

It was laughably easy to scare away all her temporary visitors. The human mind was quite able to conjure of a tale to frighten them. A mysteriously smashed vase, a message drawn onto a mirror or wall, or a piano in the night was sufficient. The last was her favorite, for it was the only one that brought her any relief at all. Her beloved piano stood the same through the years, just like her, stuck in a ghostly form. In her music, she expressed her life. The tune was always the same, and to her longer staying visitors, it became hauntingly familiar.

It was always the same. First, she played a playful tune, happy and light. The sort that made you imagine a perfect summer day, with a blue sky and fluffy clouds. That was her human life. She had been such a happy girl, full of life and happiness, eyes shrouded to the darkness of human nature. Her guests only sighed in bed, thinking it a wonderful figment of their imagination. They wished. But that was all before he had come. At that part, the music darkened. Fear, suspicion and anger entered the music. He had ripped away that veil of happiness and light. Even then, her visitors did not shift much. To them, it was a simple nightmare, that was all. But it was the next part that sent some running, searching to find the terrible sound. Others simply woke and froze. Still others would scream for it to stop, to shriek that they wanted to wake up now. Her death. It had not been a pretty one, but not entirely unexpected. By then, death had been a shadow, trailing her every step. Sooner or later, it had to overtake her. Starved, broken, and battered, the gun had only finished her off. And so she wrote her memory out in notes. The pain and anger all faded away, turning into agony, and finally, a odd sort of wistfulness as her frail body collapsed under the weight of it all, and her spirit separated from it. She told about the torture, the disbelief, and the feel of warm blood gushing through her fingers as she gazed into the eyes of the leering man before her.

By then, she could usually hear the screamers. But she couldn't find it in herself to care. Let them screech and whimper, they had not suffered a tenth of what she had, and had only skimmed the roiling sea of emotions within her. But sometimes, they didn't scream. Instead, some controlled their fear, and came a-walking. One in particular stood out in her memory, the only child who didn't start wailing immediately. She had heard her tiny footsteps coming up the little ladder, into the attic. Her big blue eyes locked onto the piano immediately, as her hands hugged her dolly to her. She could guess what that little girl saw. Piano keys, all white and black, ringing out a song that reached into your soul, unlocking the deepest depths of human despair, like a hand squeezing your heart. It only took five seconds. Dropping the doll, the little girl had screamed, running away, wailing for her mother. She kept on playing, ignoring the dolly that still lay there after many years.

The next day, the family moved out.

Sighing, she drifted absentmindedly to her piano, pressing a finger down on a random key, the note ringing out clear. Just then, she felt the front door open and gruff voices floated from a couple floors down. So long had she been here, a part of her was forever in the house, and she was able to carefully monitor every movement. Clenching her hand into a fist, she drifted down, wondering how long it would take to scare this one off.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks so much for the support. As most of you can tell, this is indeed a dark story, but not without some lightness. So, read on!

Numair Salmalin sighed, running a hand through his raven black hair. He was going to stay in Venice for the next year, because Alanna, his boss, has told him that she wanted an article of Italy. And instead of letting him research a lot, she actually _sent_ him to Italy. He should be surprised, but then again, this _was_ Alanna. That woman didn't do things halfway. Surprisingly, the house had no other buyers, despite its copious size, and not because of the price either. He was staying in a mansion near the center of Italy. It was huge, five stories tall, and quite old too. No one wanted it, for the people of Venice whispered that the house was haunted by the vengeful spirit, and swore at night you could hear her piano. Numair, naturally, with his scientific mind took no note of it. Ghosts didn't exist; it was a simple fact of life. "Twenty Euros." The taxi driver said in heavily accented English. They had finally arrived in front of the house.

Behind them, the truck with his belonging also stopped. Tossing the driver his money, Numair stepped out of the car to instruct the movers on where to put his stuff. The driveway was short, and the door was quite fancy. It was cherry wood, with ornately carved designs on it, weathered with time. "Where would you like the table to go, Sir?" A mover asked gruffly, pointing at one of the two tables he had bought. Numair sighed again. It was going to be a long day…

Later that night, after all the furniture had been brought in and situated, Numair lay in his bed. He had chosen to occupy the fourth floor, and he had a room to the sides of the house, with a big window. He stared at the moonlight penetrating the clear glass, and was gently lulled to sleep.

Deep into the night, Numair faintly heard the sound of a piano. His mind sleep-befuddled, he didn't even wonder where it came from. The tune was light, sweet, and happy. He smiled, turning on his bed, trying to get back to sleep. Just as he was about to fall asleep again, the tune changed. It grew darker, colder.

Feelings like fear and anger began to mix into the complex tune. Numair sat up, trying to identify where the sound was coming from. To his surprise, and partial fear, it appeared to be coming from above him, on the fifth floor. He got out of bed, quietly taking the staircase up, wondering what was happening. The people's words swirled in his mind. _There's a vengeful ghost in there, and she's hell-bent on getting you out._ One wizened old lady has told him. Once, he might have shrugged it off. Now, traveling a dark hallway with the ominous sound of a piano echoing through the walls, he wasn't so sure.

The tune abruptly grew even darker. A shiver ran up his spine as she resisted the urge to run out of the house. Instead, he started running towards the sound. Up, up the long staircase, through the hallway. _There_.

A trapdoor was on the ceiling a ladder leading up to it, as if it had been waiting for him. Gripping the first rung with a shaking hand, she hauled himself up. Inside, a thick layer of dust covered everything. This attic was in a room full of add knick-knacks, objects which were so old fashioned, he could only guess the use of them.

The thing that drew his attention was the piano at the center of the room, though. It was an old grand piano, also covered with dust. His eyes stared on blankly in disbelief as the keys rose up and down, played by an invisible hand. The tune was no longer angry. It was dark and full of despair, as if the person could feel her or himself being pulled down an endless black well. It was the sound of hopes lost. He felt himself sink to his knees, unable to stand any longer. Inside, everything was in turmoil as the song finally reached a crescendo, and then stopped.

He listened. All was silent once more. Hurriedly, he got up, and climbed down the ladder, running back to his rooms.

And as he ran, he could've sworn he had felt a chilling breeze over his face.

* * *

Daine chuckled darkly as he ran away from her piano. "Yes, run." She whispered. "Soon, you'll be far away indeed."

AN: Hit or miss? Tell me in a review!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I'm SO SORRY for the delay! I was going to update last week, but on an instinct, I instead updated Insanity. So...please don't kill me!

Disclaimer: This goes for the entire story, btw. I do NOT own Daine or Numair. I DO own the plot.

The next day, Numair had woken up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. He bolted upright, glancing around and blinking like a sleepy owl. Then the night's events rushed back to him. He remembered the haunting music and the odd coldness. Shivering slightly, he put it out of his mind. It was Sunday, and Alanna didn't arrive until Monday, so he had the day to settle in and relax. He decided to go and do some exploring. After all, the house was so incredibly old and huge that some rooms hadn't been seen for almost centuries. It was one of the main things that he had been excited about. He wondered what floor would be the least seen. The fifth?

He shivered again, remembering the attic. No, not that one. The fourth then. He nodded to himself, swinging out of bed as he hastily brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face. He opened the door, and stepped out. Just a hallway, with doors of wood lining each side.

At random, he selected one. This one was recently cleaned. A four post bed, with deep purple sheets. It was small, but obviously well made. There was also another door off to the side. It lead to a bathroom. The bathroom had a mirror, and the frame was two swans, elegantly arched, beaks touching. He turned around to inspect the tub, which directly behind the mirror. He leaned in closer to inspect it…when there was a cracking sound.

He whirled around. The mirror was shattered, shards littering the ground. Hands shaking, he kneeled to pick up a piece. It was sharp, and the edge cut his finger. In the shard, he could see one of his frightened eyes, staring back at him. Blood welled up, but he ignored it for the moment. How? He had never even touched the mirror. A cold breeze whooshed by.

Another crashing noise. He turned, steeling himself. The vase which was sitting by the tub was also shattered. Another cold breeze. What was _wrong_ with this house? He shakily stood up, and exited the room.

Wandering around, he eventually found the library. The library was a gigantic structure that wound through all five floors. In the middle was a spiral staircase, to exit onto each of the five tiers of books. He found a comfortable chair, picked up a book, and read in an effort to calm his nerves. It worked, and after about an hour had passed, he deemed himself calm enough to actually walk around without jumping at every little noise. He sat down the book, and stood up. Might as well do some cooking for lunch. He sighed, and left the library.

* * *

Daine growled in frustration. Men were so thick-headed, and this one seemed to be particularly so. Couldn't he just pick up his stuff and _leave_? Ah well, it would just take a bit longer to frighten him enough. Every man had a breaking point. The women just wrung their hands a bit and left, claiming the house made them "uneasy".

Men, however, always stayed. They refused to leave until you had near about taken their sanity away. She drifted around, looking at the portraits in the attic. One portrayed a woman, with long brown hair and laughing eyes. In her lap was a girl, no more than six, with a wild mass of smoky curls and innocent blue-gray eyes.

Another one had a man in it. He wasn't smiling, and instead wore a stern expression, as if to say, _Shame on you._

He had black hair, trimmed short, and was clean-shaven. His eyes were a stormy gray, and were shrouded. His entire face was one made for secrets, for sliding around in the shadows. Daine glowered at him, and hoped that he was in hell.

The first portrait had been commissioned years ago, but the other one was recent. A mere two months after it had been painted, she had died. Ninety years. Ninety years of pain and horrible emptiness all because of _him_. Her murderer. The man, who was in the portrait. It was her death day. She stepped in front of the portrait, eyes tracing his every feature. "Happy anniversary." She whispered, sickly sweet.

She slashed her nails, and the portrait was reduced to ribbons. Sweeping away, she vowed to herself that she would find his breaking point. _She would_.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Sorry for the long wait! And YAY, Alanna!

Alanna sat in her desk, tapping her foot impatiently. Why was he so late? She had to admit, Numair was not the soul of punctuality, but an hour late was a bit much for even him. Even as she thought this, the door slammed open, and a rush of cold air hit her. Numair stumbled in. He looked terrible. There were black circles under his eyes, and his hair was a mess.

Alanna rose out of her chair. "Numair? You look terrible, have you been sleeping?"

Numair mumbled, "I've been trying. Piano's been keeping me up."

"Piano?" Alanna questioned. She thought he had no neighbors.

"Alanna, I need you to promise not to laugh at me." He set his stuff down at stared at her.

He was scaring her. Numair, calm, collected, impeccable Numair appeared shaken. She nodded cautiously. "My house is haunted."

She stared at him in mute disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his hair. "I didn't believe it either, but I've seen a mirror shatter by itself, and I've heard this terrible, haunting song every night. I'm going insane."

Alanna stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded. "Okay, I'll try my best to help you."

He stared at her. "That's it? You aren't going to argue?"

"Numair, you are one of the least superstitious men I've ever known. If you say there's a ghost, I'm inclined to believe you." She stared at him again. "Go home for today, I'm going to do some research. You aren't going to be much good like that. Get some rest."

For a moment, he looked ready to argue, but the circles under his eyes won out. He nodded, and stumbled out.

Alanna sighed. "Why do I have to everything?" She questioned the sky.

* * *

After a bit of walking, she visited the police station. "I would like to see George Cooper please." She politely requested.

The woman looked at her suspiciously. "Why?" Alanna sighed; it was too early to go through this. She wrenched off her ring and showed it to the woman. "Married."

The woman was smart not to provoke the Lioness as her husband called her for her hot temper, which tended to flash up. "George, someone called Alanna here to see you." The woman said on the phone.

"Third door to your right." The woman said, and Alanna nodded, walking off, putting her ring back on.

"Hello, my lass, aren't you supposed to be at work?" He asked, leaning on his desk.

"I need to see the records for a house." She said bluntly. "Can you get those?"

George looked at her. "Why do you need records?"

She sighed. "This may sound crazy, but Numair thinks that there's a ghost in his house."

George looked at her, and then shrugged. He understood that Alanna went with instincts. "I can, right now if you want."

She nodded eagerly. They went to a room, made for specifically house files. "What address?"

"853 Piazetta Street." She recited. He nodded, going searching. Not five minutes later, he held up a massive binder. He whistled. "Lots of history."

"Give me a summary of the last…fifty years or so." Alanna said, curious.

He flipped through it. "For about the last five decades, it's been a group of lots of owners, many of them only staying one year. The longest time was five years."

"When did this start?"

More flipping. "Hmmm, interesting…" He murmured.

"What?" She asked, scooting closer.

"This started almost precisely eighty years ago. Yesterday was the date. The last owners to hold this for a long time were the Whites." He showed her a photo.

It was an old picture in black and white. It showed a woman with long hair, and a man with short hair. It was hard to tell, but it seemed like the man had black hair, and the woman brown. There was another picture of a girl. She seemed to be sixteen, dressed in a gown. Her brown curls were let loose, and she laughed at the camera, eyes alive with youth.

"Daine White, formerly Beneksri. Her mother was Sarra, also formerly Beneksri. She was married to James Beneksri, but he died in the army. She remarried to Adam White. On August 28th, Daine was found with a gunshot wound, dead. She was seventeen. Her body was marred by various scars, burn marks, and cuts. Sarra, her mother, was already dead from sickness. We only found out because a class mate of hers, Miri Dosaz went to visit her, and when entering her room, saw her dead body. Miri is still alive today. Adam White was sentenced to life in prison for murder and child-abuse." George read off woodenly. "Well, if there was any vengeful ghost, this would be it."

Alanna's head was already racing. So Daine was supposedly the ghost, and Alanna didn't blame her either. But what was the motive of frightening the people away? "Where does Miri live?"

"924 Bose Street, and she's Larse now." He read off.

Alanna flashed him a quick smile and kissed his cheek. "Thanks so much."

He smiled back and said, "Tell me what happens alright?"

She nodded, walking off once more.

* * *

When she rang the doorbell, an old man answered the door. "Yes?" He asked.

"I'm here to see Miri Larse." Alanna said.

He nodded and bellowed in a voice unfathomable with his old, frail appearance. "Mir' someone to see you!"

Another voice bellowed back, higher, but equally loud. "Evin, I'm old, not deaf!"

An old woman tottered down the stairs. "Who is it?"

Alanna said, "Me, Alanna Cooper. I'm here to talk to you about Daine White."

"Beneksri, not White." The old woman snapped. "She's not related to that bastard. And why would you want to know?"

"My friend lives in her old house, and would like to know about its history." She said.

Miri gazed at her for a long moment. "Oh all right, I'm an old woman, and Daine wouldn't mind."

She settled down into a nearby plush armchair, gesturing for Alanna to do the same. "Daine was my best friend. We met in kindergarten, when I bumped into her. Best friends ever since. I won't burden you with her childhood, but let it suffice that Daine was a very happy girl. Bright, always an optimist. She also loved her house. Not just liked it. _Loved._ To her, it was her safe place, a sanctuary."

Miri leaned closer. "But when we were sixteen, that changed. Daine's mother had met White only two months before. She started wearing long sleeves, and never showed much skin. The occasional bruise that we saw was passed off as a trip or a fall. Her personality changed. She lost that naïve quality to her. It was like something had showed her the dark parts of life too. And he had."

"I was going to visit Daine for a school-related topic. For the life of me, I can't remember what, for that has slipped out of my little old head. We were so close, I even had a key. So I let myself in, and went up to her room. Thankfully, her stepfather wasn't home. When I went into her room…" Miri took a deep breath.

"There was blood everywhere. I didn't notice it though. All I saw was Daine, my best friend. Her dress was torn up and bloody, and everywhere on her skin was scars and bruises. And there was a little gunshot would right in her heart. Her beautiful brown hair that she used to care for daily was also matted with blood." Miri's eyes were for away, remembering the horrific day.

"I won't lie. I panicked, and tore out of there like a startled deer. I ran all the way to the police station, and told them everything." Her eyes glistened with tears.

"Even after all these years, I still miss Daine. I wish I could've done better as a best friend. If anyone deserved better luck, she did."

Evin walked over. "It's not your fault, Mir'. I'm sure Daine would've wanted you to be happy." He looked at her with love, and she returned it, even after all their years of marriage.

Alanna quietly thanked her, and left to tell Numair. From what she had heard, it wouldn't be long before something really drastic happened.

AN: Review! And if you have ideas for the cover/image of the story, feel free to PM it to me or put the link in your review!


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